banging
my head
against
rock hard
reality
my bottles
of beer are
empty
and
my mind
full of
quack
unattainable
unreachable
undefinable
unutterable
unknowable
unrealistic
Buddhahood
the rain droplets
on the window pane
are particularly
quiet
alas.
I took your lighter
because it contained
the history of fire
I lit up a cigarette
melting the tobacco
into the fluid of smoke
lava pouring into my lungs
and my pupils expanded
as ripples on glass
I took a sip of tea
heavy with that coat of earth
my tongue
plowing
through its spicy furrows
at this speed
my head was dizzy
banging against
the horizons of
abstraction
I was hungry
licking the enamel walls
of totality
dissolving its porticos
its buttresses
its ornaments
as my appetite
grew
with these ecstatic
fragments
I flicked
off the ash
and walked
away with
your lighter
sorry.
NIHILISTIC Poetry
There
by the brook of your stare
I meet the sound
of your drowning,
‘alas’ so light and lasting
a word surfacing like sighs from your eyes
I make room and stand back
so you run into the invisible
curl of a mistake,
my child you’ve begotten
sadness and its truth
is more distance than those streaming
glares that leap from walls to illusions –
there
I recognize our mutual meaning
nowhere in this fog
the outline of solution
nor the source of our misery.
If there were something
to unify
I’d build a bridge
between partial reality
and the wholeness of nirvana;
had there been
something to rescue
I’d make an ark
from the planks of essence,
letting in, one by one, the species
of the invisible –
if there were something
with purpose
I’d carry it on my shoulders
till I could set it free
in a new meadow of illusion; –
if only there
were there something
other than me
around here.
You, flesh and bone,
gas and scars
of phenomena.
My hand slides down your ranges
into the pockets of pleasure,
the possibility of birth and gargantuan
orgasm.
The winding road of decisions
and the soporiferous wind blowing
of distant causes.
The trees have danced,
reenacting the groove of colliding
cosmic bulges in the rhythm
of passing gusts.
We do the same?
In silent gaze, creating
the torture of possibility
with endless and mapping thoughts?
You and winged beasts
from dawn. Red and innocent –
open mouth and chants
from the sky… where
we belong as tinges
of intangible.
I used to suffer
you see
I see a huge ball of beauty
rolling down
the corridor of experience
amazed, initially b/c there is a ball
but later simply b/c it is beautiful!
and this ball keeps rolling
beautifully, sometimes impelling me to say
it’s all dream… it’s all dream!
and yet I used to suffer
because I was sure
the end would come
this uncanny ball would
simply vanish once experience
removes the surface for it to glide
and I was so damn sure it would be over
I suffered mortally
imagining all this thrusting beauty
wasted in an absurd instant of death
oh yes
I used to suffer
but now that suffering is gone
and I keep the reasons why
to myself.
I shall be of slavery
sobbing in the night
when the moon is hidden
behind a fantastic mountain
I shall be of anger
heat upon heat
glowing insanely white
alone in the dawning desert
I shall be of lies
blood gurgling above
as the stars drown
in its sea of disease
I shall be of number
when the bronze prophecy
casts the skeleton of the fields
where children remember nothing
I shall be of incense
a sound perfuming clouds
or a string wringing time
leaving the last drop to dry
it is the air expanding
leaning invisibly
on the things
that lie awake
in the oblivion of
our acts
it’s in the hair
how it flees
description
under a delirium
of nods
it is your hand playing
with the light and motion
of a naïve hour
a choice
forever collapsing
in the past
it is melancholy
beading slowly
these pearls of remembrance
in the wasteful hand
of a poet.
One more
Wednesday
I see trees
growing out of the soil
from what foundation,
i pondered
do these events stem from
later, in the day
almost midnight in fact
blues and poetry
in the streets of Klostergade
he read out loud
don’t quote me
“everybody doing nothing
for him that observes everything”
there’s so much space
for me to sing
for me to cry
in the streets
with the plaintive winds
as my unlikely saxophone melodies
of this melancholic night
that has a plain ending
some minute —-
soon.
It was in the disfigured arrangement of thoughts
that I found the elements of art
prompted by the vision
of aging cells reversing into nothingness
sparkles bones disappear
nothingness engraved in being
life feeding from that source
the beautiful ugliness of my thoughts
unfinished – poisoned
myriad of eyes, arms, despairs, trash
tending my lost confused body
on the stillness
of poetic
landscapes.
Beyond Language 
You must be logged in to post a comment.